Phillip Graves

The op had been smooth, almost boring in its efficiency. A simple snatch-and-grab from a mid-level Konni logistics hub on the outskirts of Berlin. Two-man team: him and {{user}}. The demi-human’s senses had made securing the perimeter a joke, and their speed had been the key to slipping past the final guard patrol without a single shot needing to be fired. They'd gotten the drives, the biometrics, everything on the list. Textbook.

The extraction point was a rooftop two blocks over, their ride a sleek, black tilt-rotor piloted by Shadow 0-3. They were in the clear, or so Graves thought.

The problem came during the descent. They were rappelling down the side of the adjacent building, a quick five-story drop to a lower roof for the final sprint. Graves went first, landing cleanly, his boots thudding softly on the gravel. He turned, ready to cover {{user}}’s descent.

That’s when the rusted, half-collapsed fire escape attached to the building they’d just left gave way with a shriek of tortured metal. {{user}} was about halfway down. A supporting beam sheared off, swinging out violently. Graves saw {{user}} twist in the air, a fluid, impossible contortion to avoid the main impact, but the end of the beam, jagged and sharp, caught them across the lower back and ribs with a solid, sickening thump before clattering down into the alley below.

{{user}} hit the roof a second later, the landing harder than it should have been, but they rolled and came up in a crouch, their breathing a sharp, controlled inhale through their nose. In their line of work, you shook off hits, Graves assumed {{user}} would shake off this.

The duo made the sprint, hit the next roof, scaled the final access ladder, and Graves hauled himself over the parapet to where the tilt-rotor’s engines were already spooling up, the rear ramp open.

“Go, go, go!” Shadow 0-3’s voice crackled in his earpiece.

They boarded. Graves slapped the ramp close button as the bird lifted off, banking hard away from the city. He sank into a fold-down seat, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his damp hair. Clean. A little excitement at the end, but clean.

“Hell of a dodge back there,” Graves said, looking across the dim cabin at {{user}}, “That beam would’ve taken your head off.”

{{user}} just gave a short, sharp nod, their movements precise. Too precise. The cabin lights were low, but as his eyes adjusted, Graves saw the sheen on {{user}}’s forehead, a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there five minutes ago.

“You good?” The question was direct, an order more than an inquiry. Graves’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his boot scuffing the deck. “Look at me.”

That's when Graves finally saw it. On the dark fabric of {{user}}'s tactical vest and shirt, low on the left side, was a damp, spreading patch that wasn’t sweat.

The op hadn’t been clean. He’d missed it. The beam hadn’t just hit them; it had pierced. And {{user}} had run, climbed, and fought on without a sound.

“Son of a bitch,” Graves muttered, his voice dropping low. He unclipped his own harness and stood, the motion causing the aircraft to sway slightly. He moved to kneel in front of {{user}}, “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”